In the heart of the country
Armstrong is ailing.
Beside the Tesco
in the marketplace
last week he lay
across a trolley's
path, screaming:
We have no betters!
Music is ours!
His allergies get
worse. He talks
in honey-nut loops.
His paranoia
makes him fear
the squirrels
in the woods.
But, just the other
day, as he was browsing
through the large print
books, he saw a
woman at the done-for
public library desk
get up on tip toes
like an agile cat;
and peering over
piles of burnished
paperwork, she took
him in her eyes
and smiled, and gently
she began to say
(with Polish words):
Loneliness
will not last.
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